


The Fade Series

by Chya



Category: CI5: The New Professionals
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 18:38:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chya/pseuds/Chya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of unrelated stories all around a 'fade' theme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fade to White

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Jill for the beta and support as always, not mention `listening' to me rant on at great length about a certain car...

The cemetery is busy today. 'Busy' being a relative term, naturally, but not entirely unexpected considering the funeral held yesterday.

There's an older man here now, stern yet sad, standing by the fresh grave, a younger man just a pace behind him.

The younger man stands silent as the older man says a final farewell and leaves; his footsteps slow at first, then quickening as if to flee this place as fast as he civilly can.

After a long frozen moment, the younger man moves forward to kneel by the freshly turned earth, reaching out a hand, tentatively, to touch the cold brown soil as if to convince himself of its reality. His expression is constantly changing, from grief to confusion and bewilderment, through anger and pain, before settling back on grief again. I can feel it, bitter and intense in the air around him even from here.

I leave him be for half an eternity, wandering around the cemetery as is my custom these days, spending peaceful, contemplative time before the headstone of my beloved, who has already passed on to a better place.

I return to the new grave and find the young man still there, still kneeling, still disbelieving and move forward to stand beside him, waiting quietly until he is ready to acknowledge my presence.

No headstone has been set, but then, as the body was only buried yesterday, there has not been enough time for the earth to settle. The funeral was a pompous affair, useless to the dead, yet a necessity to the living, a vehicle that enables them to move forward.

I could tell those among the mourners who were struck with genuine grief, unready to move on with their own lives, apart from those who had come through duty alone. They stood separate from the rest, an almost tangible aura of depression and anguish around them. Those few had almost all been since then to say their goodbyes and grieve in private. The older man just now, stiff yet bowed, the little oriental girl, composed but for the tears trickling freely from her expressive brown eyes, the dark-skinned man, sad yet accepting and his tall lanky friend, angry and...

The young man by the grave notices me for the first time, his blue-grey eyes fixed on me, a deep shock clear amongst the other chaotic emotions. Looking regretfully back at the grave, he stands up, then gives me a shy smile, assuring me that I'm not intruding.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, his transatlantic twang blending into the solitude of the cemetery. "I didn't see you there."

I smile gently back at him, and offer my arm, "Will you walk with an old lady for a while?"

His smile broadens slightly, dissipating his shock and grief just a little. "Not old," he replies, "a beautiful woman in her devastating prime."

I laugh, and for an instant feel like a young girl again.

As I quieten, I glance sideways at my companion as we stroll slowly along a well-manicured path. His eyes are a liquid grey, in an expression of abject misery as he gazes down at the gravel below and the brief smile is gone, his body tense and uncertain.

"Will you be here a while?" I ask, knowing well how these things take time.

He shrugs, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "I think," he says slowly, frowning slightly, "I think I'm waiting for someone. Or something. I'm not really sure..."

"An epiphany?" I ask, for that's exactly what I've been waiting for all these years.

He shrugs again, looking up at the sky. "Something..." he says softly, and swallowing as his voice cracks slightly, "something to wake me up from this nightmare..."

We approach my favourite bench. It holds a view over the woods to the lake in the park beyond. In the summer I watch children playing, sailing little boats among the swans, their parents picnicking nearby. Not today, though. Today it's grey and overcast, almost as if sensing my companion's grief.

I bid him sit down next to me, and ask him to talk to me in an effort to help him move on.

He shrugs again leaning forward, his head bowed and hands clasped together.

"There's nothing to tell," he whispers. "A bullet in the back to save a pregnant woman's life..." he trails off, screwing his eyes shut against the tears that threaten to flow. "So stupid, so fucking stupid..."

Slowly, haltingly, he tells me everything. He and his partner going into a corner store to find it being held up by a scared child with a shotgun. They'd tried to talk him down, but the checkout girl had made sudden movement. A single shot, and that had been that.

He finishes his tale, but now that he's opened up to me, he seems to feel the need to keep talking. I sit quietly and listen. It's what I do, what I have done for many a grief-stricken soul that has passed through this place over the years since my beloved husband passed on.

He tells me about the love of his life, his face lighting up, eyes and dimples twinkling, voice full of warm love and laughter as he recalls fond memories, all turning far too quickly to anger, hate and guilt as he describes her murder. He takes me through the tormented time that followed until the older man I'd seen earlier threw him a lifeline and he found a new life.

At this point his face lights up again, crinkling in affectionate amusement as he shares anecdotes that mainly feature a Sam Curtis, whom I take to have been his partner.

He explains how much Sam was a part of helping him learn to live again, how close the two of them had become, almost two halves of a single unit in the field, yet individual, independent firm friends in civilisation. He describes the dry sense of humour and the wry laughter, describes the man in every way until I feel that I know this Sam Curtis as a friend of my own. And it with this man that my companion's greatest sorrow lies as he sinks back into grief-stricken despair.

"He - he was always there for me," he finally leans back against the back of the bench, head thrown back, blinking back the tears that are refusing to go away. "Always, even when I tried to shut him out. And now I've lost him, lost everything..."

I take his trembling hand in mine and rub the back of it, trying to soothe away the hurt. It'll take time, I tell him, he just has to be patient.

He turns his head towards me, giving me that small smile again and I still see the myriad of emotions in eyes, but they've eased a little, and the shock is beginning to wane as the first inkling of acceptance comes to him. I stand and offer my hand out to him, and we walk in a quiet, comfortable silence back the way we came, his body less tense, his steps more certain, as if pouring out to me was the beginning of a catharsis for him.

He abruptly stiffens as we come into view of the fresh grave. A young man is standing by it, rigid, his face the same cold mask as he wore when I saw him yesterday, though it's slipping now.

From my companion's description I know without a doubt that this must be Sam Curtis, although none of the wry laughter adorns his face, and there is no sparkle in his haunted silver eyes.

I bid my companion go to him, but he stands frozen, apparently shocked at his best friend's gaunt and anguished features.

I become aware of another standing behind us, and turn to look. I know who she is, and she thanks me for taking care of her beloved before taking my companion's arm, drawing him towards the grave and it's lone mourner.

My companion hesitates, staring at the newcomer, hope and joy instantly banishing the remains of the terrible grief and despair that had overcome him before. He raises a hand to touch her face.

"I - I was waiting for you," he whispers, a tremulous smile breaking through.

"I know," she replies, a sad joy plain in her clear blue eyes. "But Sam needs you before we can go."

He looks towards his friend, and sorrow passes a shadow across his face as he allows her to lead him over.

I follow them at a short distance, unsure that my task for today is yet done, and listen to the lone young man by the graveside.

"The kid's gone down for manslaughter, Chris. He's only fifteen so he'll be out in a couple of years, but... oh, shit this doesn't help..." I can hear the dark haired young man sniff a little, taking a shuddering deep breath before continuing. "I know I always joked about you and body-bags, but I never expected it to - if only there was something I could have done..."

He trails off and wipes a hand down his face, utter desolation revealed there now that the mask is gone. I wish I could help him, but he hasn't yet passed into my realm, so I can only stand by and observe as he carries on his monologue.

"I only hope you've found the peace you were looking for mate, because..." he pauses to take another gasping breath, his voice laden with pain. "Because, I can't bear to think of things turning out any other way...."

My companion - Chris - pulls away from his love and tries to make contact with his friend, but of course fails. He looks back at me, a silent plea in his eyes and I give a small nod, knowing that it is within my power to grant one small gift.

He reaches out for his love and draws her close. They're ready to move on to that better place, but, just for an instant, I can make Sam see...

*****

Sam stared at the mound of earth that was his partner's final resting place, willing it to not be real, anger fuelled grief battering away painfully at his insides.

Some sixth sense made him look up, and just for the briefest second, he could have sworn that Chris was standing there, smiling with a deep, blissful contentment that Sam had never seen in life, his arms wrapped around the beautiful blonde whose picture had always lived by his bedside.

He blinked, and the vision was gone, but some part of him was certain that wherever he was, his partner was happy. And that alone was enough for him to begin to move forward.

FINIS

 


	2. ot Fade Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of unrelated stories all around a 'fade' theme.

Dream team supreme.

And you destroyed it.

I don't know why you did it, and I can't stop a part of me from hating you for it.

You were my best friend and partner. I trusted you with my life and more, and I thought this partnership was the same for you.

I was wrong.

Obviously.

Rationally, I know you must have had damn good reasons to have turned your back our partnership, and I'd give almost anything to understand what those reasons were.

God knows you've killed before, and this last assignment wasn't the first to have been less than successful.

There wasn't anything remotely different or personal about it. Was there?

Maybe.

Maybe it was me.

Just one thing sticks in my mind that, knowing you, may have made you do it.

It's always been about trust with you, hasn't it?

I didn't betray you.

No matter what you may believe, I did not betray you.

But you heard my screams, you saw what they did to me. Did they tell you I'd betrayed you?

And just the possibility that I might, just might have done, is enough to make you turn your back on your career and everything else you've worked so hard for. What other explanation could there be for you to leave me all alone in here?

I never took you for a coward before, Sam Curtis. Guess I was wrong about that too.

Well, go on then, Curtis, disappear into the never-never. See if I, if any of us care. Because I sure as hell don 't.

Won't.

I'll probably get a new partner, maybe a rookie to break in. Another Sam Curtis, I suppose, knowing Malone. He or she won't be though, and with me they'll either sink or swim real fast.

Hope they don't sink; it'd be messy, because there isn't anyone to hold me back anymore.

You didn't trust me not to betray you, Sam.

You didn't trust me enough to stick around.

And you didn't have the guts to tell me face to face. Just took off and left me alone in this empty void.

We were the best. I'll never be part of a team that good again. Neither will you.

Dream team supreme.

And you destroyed it.

*****

"How is he today, doctor?"

"No change, Mr. Curtis. I'm afraid there's very little hope left of Mr. Keel ever making a full recovery."

"Bastards..."

"It's been over three months since..."

"Since they broke him. I know. I was there. And I've been here every day since."

"You've done more than he, or anyone could ever have expected of you, Mr. Curtis."

"You're wrong, doctor, I haven't done nearly enough. You see, not once during the - interrogation - did he come close to giving them what they wanted. Never, as they took him apart piece by piece, took everything he had away from him, did he betray me."

"I - didn't know that..."

"There's a lot you don't know, doctor. But that man is the only living person I trust, and I trust him to come back to us when he's ready."

"I hope Mr. Keel knows how deep that trust is, Mr. Curtis. It may well be the only thing left that could bring him back to us."

"Oh, he does, doctor, of that I'm sure. At least, I think so... doesn't he...?"

FINIS

 


	3. Fading Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of unrelated stories all around a 'fade' theme.

Smack!

The punch bag swung away from its tormenter in a lazy arc, belying the violence behind the blow that had set it in motion. On its return it met and collided with a foot that sent it backwards on a repeat journey, circling a little this time before another kick set it swinging back again.

And so it went on.

The punch bag received no rest that late winter evening, its punishment being meted out in a systematic, though slowly increasing tempo of violence.

The man assaulting the punch bag with such determined, controlled aggression gave himself no relief, sweat flying and his breath harsh and ragged with his exertions. Muscles bunched and strained with rhythmic repetition as he put himself through his routine over and again, each time demanding more from his exhausted body, showing no sign of allowing himself a break.

The door opened and an older man, slim though sturdy with thick grey hair, came in, brushing snow from his shoulders. He paused as he took in the solitary figure in one corner of his gym, grunting and panting as he beat seven shades of hell out of the punch bag.

He recognised the self-destructive punishment the young man was putting himself through, something he saw so often in the kids that walked through his door, begging by their actions - by the very fact that they were here at all -for some direction in their life.

This young man was little different, older maybe, more disciplined certainly, but the root characteristic was the same. He had a problem and no one to take it out on.

As a coach for many years, the older man had developed an empathic sixth sense that had seen more kids leaving his gym feeling better about themselves than actually producing boxers of any great quality. Maybe one day a young Henry Cooper would walk into the place, but until then he was happy with the way things were.

The coach walked slowly round to the back of the punch bag and caught it on an outward swing, stopping its momentum and forcing the younger man to interrupt his rhythm and stop.

"How about a break?" he asked, taking in the wary stance of the young man. The short shock of light brown hair and guarded blue eyes were achingly familiar, and the coach had to stop himself from reaching out to see if their owner was real. He felt the need, as he did with so many of the kids, to form a bond of trust so that he could help but also, he had to admit, so he could prove to himself that he was capable of holding up his end of that bond. In some way assuage the guilt that he'd carried for so long.

"I just want to work out some. Alone," the young man protested stubbornly with a strong American accent.

"I know," the coach smiled reassuringly. "But the punch bag needs a break once in a while, or it'll get old before it's time. It hasn't done anything to deserve that, has it?"

A short harsh laugh was the younger man's only reply but he backed away, reaching into his bag for some water and a towel.

"I've seen you around before, haven't I?" asked the coach.

The other man smiled a little bitterly and shrugged. "Maybe. My partner used to come here a lot."

The coach sat down on the bench thoughtfully. He remembered seeing this man before, even remembered his partner. A dark haired young man, slightly reserved and very intense with a wicked left hook. "Used to?" he asked softly, willing the kid to trust him enough to unburden himself.

The American's jaw clenched and his knuckles turned white as he clutched at the towel. "He won't be coming here any more."

The coach nodded slightly, some sixth sense telling him that the two young men worked for the Company across the road. The same Company he himself had resigned from nearly thirty years before.

"How did it happen?" he asked, reading between the lines and trusting his gut instinct.

"Shot in the back of the head," the American said tightly. "Mafia execution. I should have been there, I could have done something."

"And you weren't because...?"

"My boss assigned me elsewhere. He should never have split us up."

"And this is your fault how exactly?"

The American flashed the coach a guilty glance. "I never said it was my fault," he mumbled.

"But you're thinking it. Why else would you be putting yourself through a workout that borders on punishment?"

The American glared at him, then suddenly slumped his shoulders. "He was betrayed by a woman. If I'd have been there I could've made sure she didn't get that close to him."

The coach felt himself falling into the quagmire of his own psyche as he listened to the young man's explanation. It had been a woman who had betrayed him once, a woman who'd shattered his life and career with one easy stroke. A woman who had manipulated him into murder, both attempted and actual...

"But you're right," the younger man said, shaking his head slowly. "The old man shunted me off to a different continent where I couldn't do a thing, didn't even know." He sighed the sigh of the weary. "Now my partner's dead and I just want to kick someone's ass into orbit - and I can't."

"Of course you can," replied the coach, smiling a little over his inner sadness. At least this young man didn't have the real guilt of a murderer to contend with. "I'm sure the punch bag can take anything you've got to give today, tomorrow, whenever. Just make sure it's not your own arse you're kicking, all right?"

The American laughed at that. "I think it's taken enough for today. Maybe I'll try the punch bag again tomorrow."

"I'll see you then," the coach replied, noting that the dark, tense aura about the younger man was slowly dissipating. It would take time, naturally, but he would heal, something he himself had never been able to do since his betrayal of trust. As the American slipped a sweatshirt over his head, the coach asked, "So, what's your name?"

"Keel," the American replied absently as he sorted out his kit.

The coach expelled a breath as violently as if he'd been kicked in the gut. He knew the kid had looked familiar but so many did these days, ghosts come back to haunt him.

"Hey, you okay?" asked Keel, crouching down in front him, concern wrinkling his brow.

The coach stared at him, but his mind was somewhere in the past, immersing him in images of a close friend writhing in agony as the poison ravaged his body. "Chris...?"

Keel started, and the wary look was back. "No, Mark," he said carefully. "Chris is my dad's name."

The coach stared at him. "I – I thought... I didn't know... " He took a deep breath. "I think... I used to know your father. We were friends..."

"Really?" asked Mark in surprise. "I know he was stationed over here for a while, but he never talks about it. Mom says his partner turned rogue and that's why he took over the US division, to get away, but she kinda exaggerates a lot so..." he shrugged with a `who knows?' expression.

"No, I suppose he wouldn't talk about it. I betrayed his trust," the coach whispered distractedly. "How – how is he?"

Mark laughed. "He's doing great. Big family, loves his job, hates that I followed him into CI5." The American sobered suddenly. "I'd better be going. Got an early start in the morning, a funeral to attend."

"Of course," the coach nodded. "Mark...?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time you talk to your dad, tell him..." The coach paused, gathering his thoughts. "Tell him that Sam Curtis would like to... No, tell him that Sam Curtis demands that the stubborn... " Curtis shuddered as he recalled the events that had precipitated his own resignation and Keel's withdrawal from their friendship. "I'm sorry, Mark, forget it. Don't even let him know I still exist."

Mark looked at him speculatively. "I think he already knows."

Curtis glanced up, puzzled, and Mark elaborated.

"He said, when I was sent to London, he said that Curtis' Gym was the place to go to work out any stress. That the owner would look after me. And I know for a fact that this place didn't exist when Dad was based in England."

Curtis shook his head dumbly and with a sad smile Mark departed, leaving him to his own thoughts and feelings.

As the conversation sank into his brain, a wave of emotion swept over him so strongly that he would have fallen if he had not already been seated. Hot on the heels of the immense guilt he'd carried for so long welling up and out of him, came the liberating surge of relief and honour regained, to leave him breathless and shaking.

After all these years, his partner trusted him again.

FINIS

 


End file.
